Dance
by Athan Raczynski
Summary: 'He couldn't have just said those three, precious little words'. Set during The Great Hiatus, and companion piece to 'Atonement', but can be read alone.


_Mmm this is set in the same universe as _Atonement_, though you don't need to read that. Sherlock is in his crusade to destroy Moriarty's network and Irene helps him every once in a while—and they sort of grow closer. That doesn't mean things are easy between them, though._

_Dedicated to Andrea aka Smells Like Old Spirit, who gave me the prompt _"He couldn't have just said those three words."_ I really tried to go with _I hate you_..._

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**Dance**

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The edges of their coats lunge and sway as if dancing to some forgotten melody carried upon a soft breeze and sunshine. Only the humming of vehicles breaks the otherwise overwhelming silence in this part of the city, as they head back to their hotel to grab whatever little they carry with themselves and vanish into thin air.

Irene stands at the intersection and is just as lost in the churning as the rubbish that dances in the asphalt.

The entire world ticks and turns around her, throbbing with life. But here, in the midst of the pavement, she's forgotten everyone and everything. The man standing in front of her melts into the background, leaving her alone for a few aching moments with nothing but the rushing symphony of her blood.

She had never expected or foreseen what has just taken place. To say it has thrown her off guard would have been a grievous understatement. She reels under its heavy-handed impact, her bones crushing, every fibre of her being straining. Her mind fumbles, attempting to convince her that what she has heard is wrong. He couldn't have just said those three, precious little words.

But, oh, if he has?

The ground beneath her feet seems to boil as the wind sweeps by a long rush. It bents over the grass of the park in the other side of the street, exposing pine-green shoots. Rolled up within herself, Irene can't help but feel that a tender, secret part of herself is exposed as well. With one sentence, he's torn her open and left her naked.

She shivers.

Love.

What he said to her so long before, in his brother's office, replays itself in her mind; this is a disadvantage she doesn't want him to have, in spite of the sporadic flashes of intimacy they've shared ever since he died, but it's much more than that. Now she is afraid that he will find out what kind of power he can wield over her with those words. She doesn't want him—or her, for that matter—to further explore just how much she is willing to bleed for someone else, for him.

Abruptly, the world comes back into focus, making her reel on her feet. He stands mere inches away, waiting and watching with those observant blue eyes. She hasn't been the entirety of the last seven months with him, but she has seen his whole transformation. He is a man who could kill, the kind of man others should never turn their back on—and yet she doesn't recall ever meeting anyone more human than him. And in this very moment, he seems to be trying his best to dig down to her very soul. His look makes her squirm and she struggles to hide what she is feeling.

Sunlight falls down around them in droplets. Everything is coming apart, and the pieces float in a trance that taunts and teases. They remind him of the simpler life he'd once shared with John, of the things he had taken for granted and of a primordial truth that hums at the back of his mind.

Sherlock never thought he'd say to anyone what he's just said to her. These are treacherous, foreign waters. But as he watches her shrink away, fold in upon herself, he realises the futility of saying anything at all and curses himself for even trying.

Love.

He'd never believe on it. Even if they are separated by an ocean and the supposed knowledge of his death, there are things like his friendship with John, the affection he feels for Mrs Hudson, and the respect he's built toward Lestrade, on which he trusts and can rely, but eternal love? It couldn't exist. Then, without even realising that it was creeping up on him, he woke one day to find himself trapped like a fly in the honeyed emotion. He strained against it, tried everything that he knew of to remove the unwanted ache. But it chased him and haunted him, refused to leave him be.

Then, finally, he's found release.

In the intersection of two streets, waiting for the traffic lights to change, he told her. Ignoring just for a moment the consequences it could have, he let his heart take rein. It had been driving him so hard, never letting him rest. And with those three words relief finally floods into him. The tension eases, replaced with languid, fluid peace. But then she'd gone pale and withdrawn, and his entire world shattered.

She isn't ready. Or, rather, she doesn't want what he has to offer.

It's not like he doesn't understand her.

Aching, he nods lightly. The drops of sunlight cling to him and when the traffic lights change and he resumes his earlier pace, he seems to be doing so through molasses.

Love—torturous, wonderful thing that it is.

Her heart swells with pain as she watches him cross the street. He doesn't want this, she tells herself as she finally follows his steps. He likes being anchored to the man he once was, and that's the only genuine thing she can offer to him. He doesn't want her that way. _She_ doesn't want him that way.

The wind pirouettes, singing and whispering otherwise.


End file.
